


We Wuz Playin’ Hide an’ Seek…

by OriginalCeenote



Series: To Antarctica and Back [1]
Category: X-Men (comicsverse)
Genre: Anal, Angst, Antarctica, Barebacking, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Kiss and Cry, LoMy, M/M, Remy LeBeau is an Empath, Remy is Actually a Badass, Remy's Charm, Rough Sex, Slash, The Author Is An Awful Person, The Author Regrets Nothing, past Rogue/Remy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remy’s a ruined man in the wake of the Morlock Massacre. Logan reaches out to him, but will they both regret it? Reposted from adultfanfiction.org.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Wuz Playin’ Hide an’ Seek…

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Logan or Remy. Marvel does. Otherwise, they’d never end up in this position in such a smutty, unlikely, slashy fic. Don’t hate me because they’re beautiful, and because I’m twisted.
> 
> Dedicated to Dee.

Hustlers, thieves, pimps, gamblers and parolees blew their chump change in here every night. The drinks were watered down, the bouncer was the meanest, ugliest cuss that ever walked on two legs, and the patrons hid in the shadowy corners with the rats.

It was Remy’s kind of place. The darker the dive, the better.

He’d tripped inside, still shivering despite his reliable old brown duster and layers of Kevlar and leather beneath it. Icy drafts snuck beneath his collar despite his matted fall of auburn hair and chilled him to the bone. He’d take the humid swamp land over miles of ice and snow any day. Bella once called him her lil’ hothouse flower while the faint breeze blew in from the windows. She’d been licking a damp trail down his chest, already slicked with sweat after she’d woke him by lowering herself upon him, riding him astride like Godiva’s kid sister. Her body was lissome and smooth, her golden skin begging his touch. 

She’d left him cold. Something about her always left him so _cold_ …

Remy straightened up and jerked his neck to the left, straightening out a kink that audibly popped. He signaled to an underaged waitress for a refill, swirling the last swallow of diluted bourbon in the bottom of the glass, adding the clink of the ice cubes to the rising clamor of the little watering hole. He was still getting his land legs back. In the back of his mind, with more than a little irony, he wondered what it would feel like to ever walk upright again. In any sense.

Rogue had left him alone. In the dark, and in the cold, to fend for himself. “That’s all yer good for, Rem,” she’d grated out, tears glimmering in her fathomless green eyes that she was too proud to let fall. She was achingly beautiful in flight, disappearing into a graceful wisp on the wind until his eyes could strain themselves no further, following her escape. A soundless scream clogged his throat. He stretched out a hand as if to catch her, holding it out, clenching slender fingers around empty air until she was long gone.

He couldn’t even mourn that he’d never touch her again. That final sin brought penance that would surely kill him. She’d plundered him, wrenching open barely healed scabs and stripping him down to the last, vulnerable shreds of himself, buried like bones by a hound dog. Her kiss had doomed him to a silent hell.

Three days of being alone with his thoughts. No human contact. His empathy had no anchor to grasp in the snow-crusted wilds surrounding him. He hadn’t the luxury of feeling nothing, and the torture of feeling _no one_ scraped him raw. 

Desolation. Isolation. Anguish. Shame.

These were the things that rocked him to an uneasy sleep.

Remy avoided mirrors. He didn’t need them to show how loosely his pants hung around his wasted frame. He despised the sight of his own eyes. Liar’s eyes. The shadows beneath them and hollowing his cheekbones helped him blend in with the seedy bar’s clientele. You’ve seen one junkie, you’ve seen them all. It didn’t matter that he moved with a thief’s grace and light steps.

He replayed it in his mind, over and over, just to glean one last glimpse of what could have been. Her hair was silky, curling over his fingers when he’d swept it back from her face. He’d felt the first, faint tingle as his fingertip skimmed her cheek, mistaking it for the electricity racing inside his gut, quickening his pulse. Her skin glowed, and felt, like satin. Her lips were a ripe, luscious fruit, their Cupid’s bow spreading into a sultry smile, offering him everything he’d craved and dreamt about, but scarcely dared to taste.

He wanted to drown in her. Her lips parted beneath his for one startling second, and he traced the seam of the lower one with the tip of his tongue, unable to believe his luck when she let it dart inside.

His luck ran out. He wanted to scream out in denial when, instead, she drowned in him. Thoughts. Feelings. Memories. Twisted secrets. Thoughts. 

Darkness.

He couldn’t fathom how far or how fast she flew. She stood before him, imposing as an Amazon and poised for the retribution he knew he deserved.

“Ah won’t let ya hide like a damned thief in plain sight anymore, Remy. Ya won’t leech off of the trust we gave ya, no matter how much ya think yer playin’ the hero now. It don’t work that way. Gawd, Remy! Months,” she whispered, disgust radiating from her in waves. He tried to shield himself, withdrawing his field of empathy and pulling it as far into himself as he could to lock her out. It was useless; he couldn’t resist her. Part of him would always stumble over himself to let her in. She was Rogue. She was his everything.

And she was leaving him.

“Fer months, ya just hid this horrible thing. How can ya sleep at night, swamp rat? That’s just what ya are. A damned rat. Ah dreamed about ya, Remy. Dreamed about a life together; dreamed of lovin’ ya til Ah couldn’t stand. Had mah head wrapped up in you, an’ nobody else. Ah believed in ya from the word go, and Ah didn’t hafta. Ah took ‘Roro’s word for it. Ah shoulda known that was mah first mistake, since she believed in me, too, and ah was a criminal, once upon a time. Ah ruined lives, don’t get me wrong, but Ah wasn’t a killer. Ah wasn’t a Judas. Ah was just a weapon, til I learned ta be mah own woman. And…”

She turned away from him to master herself, and he sat motionless, transfixed by the proud, stiff line of her spine. She was still so beautiful, like an avenging angel in repose. The wind whipped her auburn curls as the fading sunset made it glow like rippling fire.

When she faced him again, her voice was hard. “Ah wanted ta be yer woman, Remy. Ah wanted ya fer mah man. But that’s just it, yer not a man. No man woulda led a whole tunnel o’ people ta the slaughter like they were lambs! And that’s what they were, Remy. People. At the end of the day, yer no betta than the folks that think all of us mutants, even the ones like you an’ me, are nothin’ but animals. Like trash. Worth doin’ away with.”

Remy was silent. He’d regret that later, and every day, when he would go days without speaking aloud to anyone.

She left him cold.

The waitress popped her gum and set down his fresh glass of bourbon. She gave his table an obligatory swipe with her filthy dishrag, seemingly wiping away any trace of him as easily as the damp ring his empty glass had left behind.

That was how he wanted it. He saluted her briefly and treated himself to a brief taste of her emotions. He didn’t waste charm on her. She didn’t want it. She didn’t swing that way, for which he was glad.

Four days as a stowaway on a boat took him to Nova Scotia. He’d foraged what he could from the galley once he’d picked the lock at midnight and hoarded what he could in his pockets, not wanting to rouse anyone’s attention that more food was missing than what was served. He felt occasional glimpses of emotion from passing crew as he hid himself among the luggage compartments, along with the freight. They didn’t sustain him, but they kept him from plunging the rest of the way into madness. His despair bit into him with jagged teeth.

Another jaunt on a steamer – still stowed away, more tightly than before, with barely enough room to stretch his long legs – brought him closer to familiar shores, but not to American soil. Even when he heard the word “Alberta,” he nearly wept. He disguised himself in the yellow rain slicker, cap, and coarse workman’s gloves and made himself useful, hauling cargo onto the docks. He made his escape before he’d be forced to give anyone a false name or look anyone in the eye.

He was so caught up in his second drink that he didn’t even notice the way the crowd in the bar parted like the Red Sea, admitting a stocky man garbed in a wool fisherman’s cap, fleece-lined parka, and shit-kicking boots. He approached Remy’s table, dripping dirty snow in slick puddles that was quickly absorbed by the thick, intentional layers of sawdust. Big Pete, the owner, believed staunchly in the stuff to make nighttime clean-up easier if anyone didn’t make it to the toilet on time, particularly on Tuesdays, which were his Tequila Shooters special nights. 

The liquor warmed him, but nothing numbed the pain. He still felt a hint of heavily guarded emotions seeping into him from a familiar source. Remy knew he had one more person to account himself to, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

His guest clapped caked-on snow from his gloves before shucking them and tossing them onto the table without invitation.

“Thought ya could do better than this shit hole, Cajun,” Logan rumbled, wrinkling his craggy nose in disgust. “Stinks ta high heaven in here.”

“Nobody’s forcin’ ya ta stay, homme,” he muttered listlessly. He didn’t meet Logan’s eyes; his hand automatically lifted his drink to his lips for another tasteless swallow. He still wore his black gloves, one or two fingers still left bare by the frayed holes that had been cut so Remy would maintain tactile sensitivity for fine-motor tasks like lockpicking and tricking passcodes. His posture was slumped; he gave the air of someone drowsy and laidback, but Logan knew it was a ruse. The Remy he knew wasn’t quick to be caught napping.

His eyes traveled over his hair, which looked like it hadn’t seen a comb or shampoo in over a week. Then again, he pondered gruffly, maybe this wasn’t the Remy he knew.

And he didn’t even know anymore who that man was.

“Ya look like something the cat dragged in and decided not ta eat.”

“Why ya here?”

“You tell me.”

“Y’already got what y’needed t’know from Rogue. Why y’beatin’ a dead horse, mec?”

“Ya know why.” Logan waved the same waitress back over to the table. Her expression was bored as she took his order for a shot of Jack Daniels. “Rogue ain’t the one who stabbed us all in the backs like a flamin’ coward. She ain’t the one who owes me the reason ya had fer doin’ what ya did, even though I know that reason’s nothin’ but a pile of shit.”

“Y’all made y’selves crystal-clear when ya told me not t’come back. If I’m keepin’ up m’own end o’ t’bargain, homme, y’don’ need t’be stalkin’ me and disturbin’ my peace.”

“There ain’t no peace when ya do what ya did. Yer talkin’ to the guy that invented ‘no peace.’ I know ya don’t sleep at night, Cajun. Don’t sit here an’ bury me in another fuckin’ pile o’ lies.”

“Don’ matter t’you where an’ how I sleep.”

“It sure as fuck matters t’Ro. She stood up for ya when the rest of us saw ya as walkin’ wounded and a liability ta boot. Ya smelled like trouble, then, Cajun, and that smell don’t get any better with age.”

“Sorry t’offend, homme. Get out.” His tone was still nonchalant, and his eyes drifted anywhere short of Logan’s piercing black eyes. Despite Logan’s healing factor, Logan’s hands still bore the pale, spidery, half-moon scars over his knuckles, left from the first time his claws ever erupted from his skin. The segments of his tanned fingers were still dusted with a fine layer of dark hair, and his knuckles were characteristically thick and solid, making up the most deadly pair of hands the world had ever, or would ever see. Logan had also shucked his parka and slung it over the back of his rickety, armless chair. He wore a charcoal sweater, cable-knit and thick over his usual plaid flannel shirt. The red collar was folded neatly over the sweater’s neckline. His jeans were old-style Levi’s, tough rancher’s garb lined in more of the reliable flannel. Logan’s hair was still covered by the knitted wool cap, making him seem almost too civilized for his surroundings and for Remy’s comfort. Part of Remy had the urge to yank the damned thing off his head and roughly scrabble his fingers through the knappy peaks until he was as disheveled as he was.

Logan took a sip from his drink and made a face, wincing at its lack of potency. 

“Ain’t done with my drink yet, Gumbo. Or you.”

“Mebbe I’m done wi’ you, den.”

“Yer never gonna be done with me. Get that straight.” Remy sighed.

“Waddya wan’ from me, mec? Blood? Kick m’lily white ass? Rough me up? Ain’t notin’ y’can do t’me dat Rogue ain’t already done. I hurt her. She got her own back an’ ripped out m’heart.”

“Yer still breathin’, dumb ass. She didn’t do a thorough enough job.” Logan sighed and rubbed his nape. “Speaks well of her, and the fact that she still loves ya on some level, if she’d leave ya with that much. ‘Ro had Bets track ya down with Cerebro. Just in case ya were wonderin’ how I found yer frozen carcass out here in the boonies.”

“Fine, den. Tell ‘em y’found me. Then get out.”

“Not til I’ve had my say.”

“Y’have.” Remy ignored the growing plume of annoyance he sensed on the fringes of Logan’s psyche, dancing like a flickering flame and licking out at him. He dared not hover any closer to it. He still tossed back the remainder of his bourbon and let his glass hit the table with a thunk. “Don’ follow me. We just ‘bout done.”

“Not on yer fuckin’ life.” Remy shrugged more deeply into his duster and slipped through the crowd, making it all the way out the front door.

The gravel lot was full of cars, and rock salt strewn around the front stoop crunched beneath his feet, preventing patrons from slipping and pressing a lawsuit. Everyone was inside, without so much as a straggler puffing on a cigarette. There was no need, since the bar itself tasted and smelled like an ashtray.

He’d made it five paces from the front door before Logan got a hold of him.

He was almost grateful for the watered-down bourbon. His jaw would be throbbing the next morning. Logan’s burly fist flew sharp and swiftly through the frigid air, landing against Remy’s gaunt face with a crack.

Logan fucking hit like a Mack truck…

Remy wasn’t out of tricks yet. He half-sat reeling in the snow, clutching a handful of it and feeling for pebbles.

“I’ll tell ya when I’m done with ya,” Logan hissed. He leaned down to haul Remy up by the lapels, planning on being there for a while. He didn’t figure he’d get any objections from anyone inside for cleaning the parking lot with him, either.

“Feel free t’try,” Remy shrugged, charging the handful of snow and debris and thrusting it directly into Logan’s face with a shove. Logan never let go of Remy’s coat, but he swore as his flesh was singed, puffs of sparks catching into flame at the contact with the whiskey he’d just drank. He roared and recovered himself, singed flesh notwithstanding, and drove his fist into Remy’s face again, meeting his nose. Blood spurted free and stained the snow a stark crimson, and Remy had no time to admire it as Logan drove himself into his body like a bull, rearing up and thrusting him back into the hood of a large Ford truck.

His back slammed up against the grill as Logan knocked the breath out of him, and for a brief second, he wanted to give in to his rage. Let him put him out of his misery…

He finally saw his eyes. Rage pulsed within their depths and threatened to drown Remy in their fury. Logan’s nostrils flared, again making him resemble a bull and doing nothing to soften the harsh, rugged features or the thick, beetled black brows glaring down beneath the wool cap.

“Yer not gettin’ away from me, Cajun. The nose knows,” he muttered, tapping it with his forefinger and briefly reminding Remy of a meaner, raggedy Santa Clause. The only present Logan was bringing him was a headache that was already ruining his buzz, and the promise of a sore ass.

And a cold one. The snow was seeping into him by small degrees, chapping and reddening his skin. Stubble covered his lean jaw, and Remy’s tongue reflexive lapped at his lips, tasting the drizzle of blood and a remnant of the bourbon. He spat, trying to clear it from his palate and not caring that Logan was the target. Logan backhanded him this time.

“Yer gonna be spittin’ teeth next time!”

“Get ready t’grow y’own back,” Remy replied, and Logan was incredulous, just for a moment, at the lazy smile that quirked the Cajun’s lips. He leaned forward and head-butted Logan, stunning him and prying curses from his lips.

It was an amateurish mistake. He’d hurt himself more than his captor, and he dimly counted the spots he saw as his head exploded with pain. His skin tingled with cold and euphoria of the fresh injury, and he moaned, sagging to the ground when Logan let him go. His head thunked back against the truck’s grill, only making him feel worse.

“Fuckin’ metal’s gotta be good fer somethin’,” Logan grumbled. “Get up.”

“Kiss my ass,” Remy moaned again, his voice a miserable gurgle.

“We ain’t gonna talk here.”

“Ain’t gonna go anywhere wi’ you, homme.”

“It ain’t up t’you.” Logan reached for Remy again, and this time, Remy took a different approach.

His long leg swept out, clipping Logan’s from beneath him. Logan “oomphed as he fell back and bit his tongue on the way down, hitting the snow with a crunching thud. Remy scrambled on unsteady legs down the gravel road and never looked back.

Logan followed him at a sedate pace, accustoming his eyes to the slate-gray sky and the streetlights shining through the blackened trees.

Remy thrived in heat. Logan was more than equipped to deal with whatever Mother Nature had to dole out, and he had no problem with snow. His muscles flexed and burned pleasantly with his exertions as he slogged through the drifts, hardly feeling it through his boots and layers of denim and flannel. He re-zipped his parka so it wouldn’t flap open as he made progress.

He figured Remy was about three-quarters of a mile ahead of him. He could still hear his footfalls, and his scent was upwind. Bourbon and all.

“Might do a better job of hidin’ from me, kid, if ya thought ta take a friggin’ shower,” he muttered into the wind, which bit at his lips. Snow flurries blew into his eyes and speckled his brows and lashes.

Remy didn’t have a healing factor, he was tired, starved, injured, and wasn’t exactly fresh as a daisy. Logan still admired him for making the attempt at holding his own. But he was gonna learn the hard way that running away wasn’t an option anymore.

He leapt nimbly over a frozen stream, noting the water bubbling up from a huge crack where Remy must have stumbled through. He was still bleeding; Logan followed the crimson droplets like a grisly trail of breadcrumbs. Remy was getting sloppy.

Then again, he didn’t bargain on the trip wire…

“GAAAAAAAAHHHH! WHOOOUUULLFFFF!” CRACK!

He didn’t see the dead log, rigged up by a fraying rope and looped around a hefty branch until it swung out and clipped him in his chest, dead-center. He felt himself sailing through the air until a towering oak tree broke his fall.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, body throbbing as the broken blood vessels in his back and chest began to knit themselves back together. All he knew was that he was still close. It was gonna feel good to get his own back.

Gambit’s footsteps were quicker this time, despite how long they’d resumed the chase in the relentless snow and ice. He’d bought himself a minute, and he planned to put it to good use. If he could just make it back to his cabin, he’d be all right. Hotwire his neighbor Jimmy’s truck and make it out to the highway underpass. Grab anything within reach that he could take with him. Leave the Wolverine and his accusing eyes in the dust…

Something clamped around his upper body, rendering his arms immobile and pinning them to his sides as he was knocked to the ground. He took a face plant into the snow as the air was crushed from his already burning lungs, and he heard Logan’s harsh breathing above him, snarling out through his lips. He struggled, trying every way he could to break the Canadian’s blunt grip; he couldn’t come along easily. Logan toyed with him, letting him think he was gaining leverage as he flailed and kicked, grasping what he could in his desperate grip. Twigs, rocks and handfuls of crunching leaves were charged and flung back at whatever parts of Logan that he could reach, but Logan held fast to his wasted body and dodging the crackling debris. He felt his flesh burn and smart, but he ignored it.

Logan finally caught Remy by the scruff of his neck and caught his hand, twisting his arm behind him. Remy bellowed in agony at this wrenching jerk, feeling as though his arm was about to be pulled from his rotator cuff, and knowing Logan had the strength and the impatience to do it if he chose. He was dragged to his feet, and he stumbled as Logan drove forward, jerking him up the flight of three rickety steps and finally ramming him into the door.

“Ya gonna behave?” he rasped.

“Go t’blazes!”

“You first,” he shrugged, then rammed him into the door again.

“This be gettin’ might old, mec,” he spat, still tasting copper. His head throbbed, and he wanted nothing more to retreat to his bed, such as it was. A hollow, ragged voice inside of him cried to him to just end it, and give in.

He never realized that the voice was bursting from his lips.

“Fuh t’love o’ God, homme, jus’ DO IT, d’ya hear Remy? Don’ wanna live no more! Don’ wanna FEEL no more! TAKE ME OUTTA THIS WORLD! CUT M’HEART OUT SO I DON’ HAFTA FEEL!” Logan spun him around to face him, knocking him back against the door again, but with less conviction. “Don’…don’ make me hafta feel, mec. Can’t stand it. Can’t stand it no more,” he blurted, and tears made his eyes glimmer in the moonlight, catching the glow of it being thrown off by the stark white snow.

“Shit. Yer finally lookin’ me in the eye,” Logan grunted, shaking his head. “Bout time. Ya hafta remember how ta do that if yer gonna call yerself a man again. Fuckin’ coward,” he hissed. “Unlock it, if it’s yers.”

“It’s a squat. Owner got shot out on a huntin’ trip two weeks ago. No one’s come t’claim it. No next o’ kin,” Remy explained simply, and his hand fumbled behind him for the door latch. He pressed down on it until the door creaked behind him, and he nearly fell backward through it until Logan steadied him. Remy slapped his hands away, even if it was redundant. Logan crossed the threshold, letting go of him so he could steady himself and get his bearings again. He stomped his boots on the pitiful excuse for a floor mat and crossed the room, taking in his shabby surroundings in a mixture of sympathy and curiosity.

“How’ve ya managed in this mess, Rem?”

“Why d’ya care, Wolverine? Ain’t a palace, but til someone comes along an’ kicks this ol’ Cajun out, it’s home.” Remy sunk into a chair, not caring how dark it was in the tiny cabin. Logan sighed and thanked whatever God who listened to him every night when he sank into tortured sleep – because he was alive, still, and not roasting in a hell of his own making – that the place at least had a light switch.

He immediately wished it didn’t. The battered lamp washed the room in sickly yellow light and revealed torn draperies, a lumpy sofa, and chairs with slightly rusted, wrought iron legs. Remy was seated at a pine table with a scarred surface. Cigarette ashes littered it, and he noted various places where it looked like Remy stubbed out his cancer sticks over the past few days.

He wasn’t doing himself any more favors, reaching for a half-empty bottle of gin and uncapping it before he took a thirsty swig. Logan grunted as he watched his throat work it down. Lean cords of muscle tightened and released as he attempted to slake his thirst.

“It ain’t hair o’ the dog if ya take it while yer still shitfaced,” Logan reminded him wryly. He stomped over to the fireplace, noticing that it hadn’t been lit in at least a couple of days.

“Keeps me warm.”

“Where d’ya keep the firewood in this dump?”

“Half a cord, stacked out back. Be m’guest. Don’ be offended if I don’ rush t’get up.” He swept his arm broadly, gesturing to the shabby interior. “Make y’self at home, homme.” He smiled with bruised lips, grimacing slightly at the discomfort that caused.

“Only thing I’m offended by is the stench. Shit. When’s the last time ya shook hands with a bar of soap, Rem?” Remy muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he took another swig of the gin, this time for medicinal purposes. If he couldn’t feel his teeth by the time he was finished, then he was on the right track. His nose and lip throbbed mercilessly; his eyes would look bruised in the morning. His immediate plans didn’t involve so much as a glance into the mirror if he could avoid it.

Red on black. Wherever you saw smoke, there was fire. All he’d left behind was smoke. Destroying whatever he touched. 

He coughed out a rusty chuckle. He’d never had a problem with bloodshot eyes. Logan’s expression was exasperated before he stomped into the kitchen, then slammed out through the back door. Remy thought he’d be relieved to hear him go.

A strange pang swept through him as Logan took his emotions with him. Betrayal, anger, frustration, all of it caused by him, Remy knew. But after weeks of barely getting by, pulling so deeply inside himself, and never making contact with anything resembling genuine feelings or intentions from the strangers he interacted with, and who tolerated his presence, despite his “charm,” the aura of emotions pouring off of Logan were intoxicating. Addictive.

He’d even welcome his hatred, if it kept him warm. Filled that hollow, achingly empty place inside of him with something else than the constant denial of everything about himself. He wanted to rip off his clothes, tear the skin from his own bones; anything to stop feeling so soiled.

He stared at the gin bottle for several agonizing minutes, bereft that Logan took his aura away. His fingers were still chilled as he peeled the cracked label from the bottle, leaving behind sticky, dry white shreds.

That was how Logan found him as he hauled in several logs, bearing the brisk scent of wood freshly cut. Tiny wounds on the backs of his hands were still healing themselves and pushing out tiny splinters that had broken his skin. Some foolish side of Remy wanted to nag him to wear gloves; this was frostbite weather. Then he remembered who was standing in front of the fireplace, cussing over the heaps of grey ash that Remy never bothered to sweep out.

Logan stared holes into Remy’s back, taking in the sight of his slumped posture, graceless and defeated. In the same instance, he looked both old and young with eyes that had seen too much, curled up like a punished little boy. His slender fingers busied themselves with the bottle, peeling away strips of filthy paper and strewing them over the table.

“Wouldn’t let a dog live like this,” Logan grumbled. He stalked back into the kitchen after laying two sturdy logs in the fireplace and searched for paper that he could use as kindling. He found a large bin of old newspapers and magazines that the previous occupant had intended to recycle, and for once, Logan had nothing disparaging to say about the eco-friendly habit that Jean and Ororo used to nag him about. He snagged a couple of old papers and tucked them under his arm before searching the creaky drawers. He prized a book of matches from the utility drawer, nearly winning himself a nasty gash from an X-Acto knife that someone left unsheathed inside. Remy continued to avoid his eyes as he moved about the cabin. Those red eyes glowed like liquid rubies in the dim light; darkness seemed unwilling to let go of Remy, cloaking him within its shelter. They followed Logan’s booted feet; watched his thick-fingered hands roll the pages of the newspaper into slender tubes and insert them into the hearth around the timbers. 

They remained dry, for the moment.

“Ain’t got much. No point in y’stayin’ wi’ me tonight, Wolverine.”

“Ain’t gotta be anywhere else in a hurry,” he retorted with a faint snort. He resumed his task, and Logan was grateful that someone had at least thought to clean out the flue; the room didn’t fill up with smoke from a clogged chimney, and Logan didn’t hear any wildlife skittering away as the flames crackled to life.

Only when the flames showed no sign of dying out did he finally sit down on the sofa that had seen better days. He still felt a draft leaking inside over the hardwood floor. A scant number of rugs braided from rags provided too little insulation. He peeled off his parka and laid it over the ottoman to dry before letting himself up again. He didn’t ask Remy where anything was. An old linen closet held some faded towels and sheets, all with several holes from repeated washings. They’d have to do.

He wadded up several old towels and began using them as “window snakes,” tucking them in the sills and laying one over the gap in the seam of the doorframe. Thumb tacks secured a blanket over the big picture window and helped to hamper the drafts. He almost regretted taking away the view of the surrounding woods, which was the only thing that brightened the dismal accommodations, but there was no help for it.

“What ya gotta understand, Gumbo, is that Rogue ain’t cried much since the day I met her. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen that woman shed a tear and still have a few fingers left. But she’s only tough on the outside. She almost died in my arms once, defendin’ someone I loved more than my life. She stepped between M’iko and a gun. She fuckin’ near died in my arms, only two days after we met. Til then, I didn’t trust her. She was a bandit, just as bad as you in my book. She’d hurt another woman that I loved, once upon a time. Ya only get ta do that once.” SNIKT…he unsheathed his claws and let the firelight dance down their silvery blades. “She redeemed herself when she saved M’iko. That took a lot of heart. When I told her she could borrow my healin’, she broke down an’ cried. She didn’t think she was worth the sacrifice, because I didn’t trust her before. The whole friggin’ time that she’s been with us, she’s been provin’ that she’s worth believing in, and that she deserves our trust.”

“Why y’tellin’ Remy dis?”

“So ya know how we’re takin’ yer measure. Anna knew ya were a smooth talker an’ a thief. Ya walked around smellin’ like ya had a dirty secret. Maybe a few. She put herself out there ta love ya, even though she knew ya’d break her heart, one way or another. That’s how she’s built. So ya dangled her, an’ ya let her believe there was a happily ever friggin’ after, ‘cuz we gave her that chance. We gave her trust, and she stepped up. She started believin’ that someone could love her, too, if she took that chance, even if she couldn’t ever fall fer somebody the usual way. Rogue ain’t kissed anybody since she was a kid tryin’ out a new stick of lip gloss, fer fuck’s sake! How do ya think she felt when she goes out on the limb, puckers up an’ lays one on ya, and she gets…” Logan waved his hand at him dismissively, “…whatever the fuck was swimming around in that fucked up head o’ yers. The memories don’t go away. Ya know that, don’tcha?”

“She tol’ me ‘bout ‘em.”

“Every ugly memory you’ve ever had, Rem, every crush, every fling, every time ya ever broke someone’s heart, every scream ya’ve ever heard from bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong flamin’ time, all that’s tucked inside her head, locked up tight and hers until she can’t draw another breath. Ya did that ta her. And when ya took up with Sinister, ya did that ta us. Ya branded us with that, now, knowin’ what ya were capable of.”

“Dat ain’t me,” Remy muttered, numbly setting down the gin bottle that he’d been slowly turning on its edge by the neck. “Ya don’ know notin’ ‘bout me an’ what I’m capable of. Who y’tink y’are, tellin’ Remy ‘bout what he’s capable of, when ya’ve got blood on y’own hands, neh?”

“It is you,” Logan growled. His knuckled itched, but he retracted his claws and sank down onto the couch again, letting his screaming muscles finally rest. Various aches nagged him for a warm bed in the hotel he’d rode past in the rented pickup truck, but that guilty little voice rose up from the clamor in his head and chided him that he couldn’t leave Remy here, even if he wanted to let him rot. “Even if ya didn’t draw the knife or pull the trigger, there’s blood on yer hands, Rem.”

“Den let Remy be. Don’ soil y’hands; lemme wallow an’ rot. Go home t’ev’rybody an’ play hero. Play house. Jus’ quit playin’ wit’ Remy. M’tired an’ m’head hurts. T’anks fer de comp’ny, but y’overstayin’ ya welcome.”

“Playin’ hero, he says,” Logan grated out, giving him a sour smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That what ya were figuring you were doin’? Thought it’d all even out in the end, even if it came out in the wash?”

“Been workin’ fuh yaself, all dis time, mon ami,” Remy drawled, and he finally allowed his eyes to drift up and really look at Logan, all the while laying himself bare.

He had nothing else to lose. Those eyes no longer held that devilish gleam of mischief. He was beaten. Ruined. Soiled. Hopeless.

“If it don’ even out, den Remy be fine right where he is,” he snapped. He stood on limp legs and shucked his duster, flinging it onto an empty chair. He was still garbed in his Kevlar vest and a thick sweater tugged haphazardly over it. Pants of cracked black leather were well-worn and soft. The vest and sweater came off, leaving him in a faded thermal shirt in a dull gray that seemed to leach more color from his face. He chucked his clothes into a dusty corner and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Stay if y’want. If ya wan’ kick my ass, wait til mornin’. Lock up when y’leave.” Logan wasn’t budging, and his feelings were leaking free, despite the stony look on his face. The sharp tang of disbelief coupled with pity Remy didn’t want teased him from across the room.

“Ya never forget it. I know ya ain’t gonna get any sleep tonight, Rem. What ya did won’t let ya.”

“Gon’ sleep like a lil’ babe, mec.” It was such a lie.

“Not til ya tell me one thing. Why’d ya save Sarah?” Remy was halfway out of his boot and flexing blood back into his toes, half-wishing he didn’t have to. It burned like blazes; a thousand needles seemed to prick his soles, but he needed the warmth, no matter how much it hurt. Logan’s words gave him pause.

“Ya almost didn’t do her any favors, Rem. Ya let ‘em kill her family. Ya let ‘em ravage and destroy the only home she had. Kid saw anyone she ever loved get cut ta pieces. Why her?”

“Ya don’ wanna go there, Wolverine.” He pried off his boot with a hollow thud as it hit the floor and sprayed the wood with muddy snow drippings.

“What’d ya say ta her ta get her ta come along with ya?” Logan leaned his elbows over his knees and toyed with a bit of the leftover newspaper. Remy felt a tinge of concern emanating from Logan’s body; from his being, reaching out to him with feather-light fingertips. He shrugged it off; it pricked him, like needles.

“Don’ matter what I said.”

“Keep tellin’ yerself that.”

“Don’ lemme keep ya. Give Stormy my regards.”

“She’s got enough on her fuckin’ mind right now.” Remy winced. His arms felt empty. They still held the tactile memory of holding a tiny girl with bony fragments protruding from her face and a head of disheveled red hair as she clutched at his duster.

And later, the slender frame of another girl with eyes like crystal, pleading with him for his protection. He’d told them both the same thing…

“Told her we wuz playin’ hide an’ seek,” he murmured, unable to stop the words. He swallowed hoarsely, but he didn’t reach for the bottle of gin. “They were killin’ anytin’ that moved or made a sound. She was the first lil’ one I could reach. Dey were all screamin’, an’ runnin’, an’ dere wuz so much blood. Had ta get away. Had ta take her away, an’ tell her not ta make a sound. Had ta make her t’ink it wuz all a game, ta make her come wit’ me.” Remy wiped his nose reflexively, thinking his nose had started bleeding again. He soaked the cuff of his thermal shirt with a damp trail of mucus and tears.

He was crying. And all the while, he was vulnerable, exposed to Logan’s unyielding scrutiny.

It burned.

“She…couldn’ make a s-sound. Couldn’ come outta de dark,” he stammered, grinding away the tears pouring hotly over his gaunt cheeks. They dripped off his jaw before he could stop them and spattered his pants. “All she knew was life in de dark, an’ lil petit had ta stay dere wit’ me in de shadows if she wan’ live, or dey’d kill ‘er. Had ta take her away. Had ta tell her lies.”

“Ya never stopped tellin’ lies.” Logan’s voice wasn’t as flinty as it had been for most of the night. And it was closer than Remy expected.

Strong fingers wrapped around his upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Remy put up a weak struggle as Logan dragged him down the hall toward the tiny excuse for a bathroom, picking his way down the dark corridor with his keen vision. Logan wrested him inside and kicked the door shut behind him, and his boot added one more dirty stain to the peeling paint. He tugged on the tiny chain and an uncovered bulb in the light fixture threw stark yellow light over old porcelain and limescaled tile. The bathtub, at least, was full-sized, and the water didn’t take long to heat up as he cranked the old dials, plugging the tub with an old rubber stopper. Remy made for the door, but Logan shoved him backward until he fell back in a heap atop the toilet lid. He stood up again, but down he went.

“We can do this all night,” Logan offered sagely, quirking his brow in challenge. “Ya stink. My nose has had enough.”

“Get de fuck out, den. Wan’ me t’say it again?”

“Uh-uh. I ain’t gonna listen.” The tub filled with water that managed not to smell metallic, and steam rose from its surface, making Logan sweat from beneath his layers. A hint of rosy color crept back into Remy’s pale cheeks, and he threw up his hands against Logan’s too-familiar efforts at relieving him of the last of his garments. His shirt was tugged roughly over his head, and Logan wrinkled his nose. “Damn, that’s ripe.” He bent down and reached for Remy’s remaining boot and unlaced it carefully, trying not to jar him any further, but Remy attempted to give him a swift kick.

He was savagely yanked from the toilet lid onto the floor for his efforts. Logan didn’t play. Remy nursed his tongue against the roof of his mouth from where he’d bitten it on the way down. His boot landed in the same heap with his shirt, and Remy’s abdominal muscles jumped at the fleeting scrape of Logan’s fingers against him as he unfastened his belt buckle.

“T’ink ya fergettin’ yaself, homme,” he warned, his voice dangerously soft. Yet part of him ached for that touch. Days, weeks he’s spent, starved for contact. All after craving Rogue’s kiss or the mere touch of her hand, thirsting for her ripe body for over a year.

He nearly choked on his raw need.

“Do it, or I’ll do it for ya, Rem.” Remy slapped at his hands, but that didn’t deter him from his task. He prized the belt open and jerked open the snap, and the zipper gave way on its own. Logan sucked in a harsh breath; the kid was wasting away. The pants hung from his lanky frame, and his blue veins were closer to the skin than they needed to be. He jerked them down his legs, and Remy cursed in protest at the feel of the cool linoleum against his bare skin. He shivered, despite the growing heat in the tiny commode, and the steam began to obscure his view of the stocky Canadian playing nurse. Logan jerked him to his feet once again, and Remy practically dragged him into the tub after him, but he fell forward into the water instead with a hollow splash.

The teasing ripples of concern breaking the surface of Logan’s emotional “shield” were still calling out to Remy, and it still stung him as Logan threw a dessicated bar of soap he found on the edge of the sink into the tub with him. Logan shucked his hat and tossed it onto the top of the toilet tank before he knelt by the tub.

“Gon’ sing me a lullaby next, homme?”

“I don’t sing.” The tub was nearly full to overflowing, and Remy wouldn’t admit that he liked his bathwater the way Logan fixed it for him, deep and hot. Logan reached over and cranked off the tap, letting it drip to a trickle as he splashed water over Remy’s face without further preamble or by-your-leave.

“Shit…m’eyes!”

“Close ‘em,” Logan suggested, and he cupped his hands and dumped more water over Remy’s face. Remy bellowed in protest, sputtering over the rivulet of water that went straight up his nose. He knew Remy would rest better if he wasn’t covered in layers of filth, and if he wasn’t at risk of freezing to death. The offerings in the tiny fridge didn’t look promising, and Logan didn’t anticipate cooking anything in that miserable excuse for a kitchen, but he could at least get Remy cleaned up.

When Remy stopped fighting him, Logan continued to cup his hand and pour water over his head, but he was more careful, letting it sluice through his hair and knocking loose the matting of grit and smoke. He laid one hand protectively over his forehead to prevent the water from going into his eyes again and continued to dip and rinse. Remy’s muscles relaxed and he released a low moan of relief. He sagged back and leaned his head against the bathtub wall. Logan retrieved the soap, and Remy listened to the slick sounds of him rubbing it between his palms to work up a lather.

Logan proceeded to work the foam into his hair, rubbing the tension from his nape and even poking a soapy pinky into each of his ears, cleaning him as solicitously as a mother would a two-year-old. He ignored the water soaking his sleeves as he worked. Luxurious runnels of suds ran through Remy’s hair as Logan massaged and kneaded his scalp, combing his fingers through the tresses, now slick as a seal’s. He rinsed his hair again, taking as much care has he had before not to drown him, and his calloused palms swept back his hair from his face, gently caressing a stray fleck of foam from his eyebrow.

“M’not clean,” Remy remarked dully, toying with the bar of soap as Logan stood to fetch one of the remaining towels.

“Don’t blame that one on me,” he shrugged. “Ya weren’t exactly smellin’ like a rose when I found ya.”

“M’dirty. Nevah gon’ be clean, mon ami,” he informed him, chucking the bar back into the tub and leaning his head into his hands. 

Logan caught the scent of more saline mingling with the soap, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob. The towels could wait. He padded back over to the tub and leaned against the edge.

“Rem…”

“These hands ain’t nevah gon’ be clean!” They shook. He flexed and unflexed his fingers before raking them through his hair, tugging so hard on it that Logan thought he’d tear it out by the roots. His body spasmed and trembled as he rocked back and forth in the water, and he slumped forward so that Logan couldn’t see his face.

“Remy…quit it, just calm the fuck down, don’t-“

“Ya can’t touch me! I’m fuckin’ DIRTY, mec! Ya can’t look at me! I ain’t the hero no more! I AIN’T A HERO! I…ain’t…the hero. There’s blood on these damned hands. So much damned blood…ya can’t look at me,” he insisted. “Ya can’t…” Logan’s hands held him back from slumping forward into the water to drown himself, or wear himself out with the attempt. Phantoms bearing bloodstained teeth danced before his eyes every time he closed them. Logan’s fingers pressing into his flesh became his tangible anchor before his own demons could devour him. He shivered within Logan’s grip, and never felt so exposed and laid open as he did as Logan’s eyes probed his, reading all of his secrets. 

And passing no judgment.

“There’s blood on these hands, too, Rem.” He gently nudged him back and retrieved the soap. “So much, all I can see is red, everywhere I look. Every time I close my fuckin’ eyes. I don’t even know what sleep is anymore. Just a glimpse at hell. It’s like watching a scary movie, and realizing that the monsters are real, and that the lights aren’t gonna come back on when it’s over. It’s never over. And I’m one of ‘em.” 

Logan’s touch was gentle as he lifted one of Remy’s hands and ran the bar of soap over his flesh, slicking it over the lithe muscles and smooth skin, being particularly careful with half-healed cuts and the beginnings of a bruise on his forearm from one of several times that Logan had knocked him to the ground. He laid his arm back in the water, cupping his hand and pouring more water over his shoulder to rinse it clean before working on his other arm. The bar of soap slid over his shoulder and ran over his collarbones and neck, drawing white, filmy lines over his chest, and Remy trembled, but this time, not from the cold. His skin broke out in goosebumps from the flood of emotions pouring out from Logan, all of his defenses down on the ground.

Yearning. Shared pain.

“I tell myself every night that tomorrow’ll make a difference. If I see tomorrow. Some nights, I don’t wanna think about it. It never looks any better in the light of day. I’m still a killer. An’ I’m good at it. Ain’t every day that I can look in the mirror and tell myself I’m a man. Playin’ a hero.” Logan’s hands worked their magic, kneading Remy’s neck and shoulders where he’d lubricated it with the soap, allowing his fingers to slip over his muscles and massage him into a limp stupor. The warm water soothed his aches. Logan’s palm skimmed over his chest as he scraped away more of the soapy film, then splashed more water to rinse his skin.

Remy caught his wrist and held him immobile. His eyes were open and alert, and Logan’s pupils dilated as Remy slowly lowered his palm over his heart, flattening it and stroking the backs of his fingers to keep him there. Remy’s heartbeat thudded beneath his palm, and it coursed through him, chasing his pulse and mingling with his own rhythms until that beat became a part of him.

Logan inhaled raggedly, scarcely daring to move. His fingers twitched; Remy’s fingertip toyed with the edge of one of his blunt nails before he stroked a path over the broad, sturdy bones in the back of his hand and tickled his pulse. He smoothed the glistening, damp mat of dark hair over his forearm as he delicately rolled up the sopping sleeve.

Remy’s charm was back. And it was hungry.

Logan swallowed roughly, and his mouth felt dry as a desert. The sensible side of him nagged him to just back away from the tub and wrest his hand from Remy’s grasp. The kid was as weak as a kitten; he’d grab the towels, tell him to quit messin’ around and get himself settled in for the night. The lumpy couch was calling his name. Or he could do as Remy asked and head out that creaky door. End of story.

Then he remembered that he’d never liked being sensible.

“Ya need a shave,” Logan murmured, unsure of why.

“Ain’ got no one t’get baby-smooth for,” he reminded him, but amusement crept into his voice, and he tried to smile around cracked lips. That look, on that face, broke Logan’s heart.

Least of all me…

The bathroom was still save for scant sounds that created white noise for Logan’s senses, almost like an anchor. Occasional, staccato drips of the faucet into the tub. Remy’s breathing. His heartbeat; Logan strained himself to hear it. He was rewarded by its quickening and thundering rush. His own pulse. Blood rushing in his ears. The faint drift of steam rising from the water; he could even hear the condensation dripping down the mirror. It had a sound, Logan mused to himself. Not everyone knew that.

“Ain’t like you ta walk around lookin’ like Death warmed over.”

“Don’ matter. Might as well be dead.” His voice was filled with challenge.

“That ain’t an option.”

“Den change Remy’s mind.”

“Ya don’t know what yer sayin’, kid…”

“Logan knows what Remy sayin’. Don’ act like y’don’, chere.” Logan’s hands weren’t obeying his brain’s commands to release his charge. Slick, cool tendrils of hair were gently peeled back from Remy’s cheeks. Water poured from his hands in careful, slow scoops to rinse away the last of the film. When Logan felt a wan, slender hand caress his own stubbled jaw, he didn’t fight it. He released a shuddering breath. His knees throbbed from kneeling so long beside the tub, but there was a greater, more significant ache between them that screamed for attention.

“I ain’t Rogue,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Remy noticed.” His voice was amused. “Shorter, fuh one.”

“I know ya ain’t so lonely that yer gonna tease and bait this old soldier,” Logan grimaced, before slapping his hand away. His touch, like his blasted red-on-black eyes, was addicting.

“Non. Remy don’ tease. But y’got it right on one t’ing, Wolverine. Remy be mighty lonely. Got needs. And Remy can see dat dere’s more reasons den ya wantin’ ta settle up what happened and make Remy see de error of his ways for ya comin’ t’stay tonight.” He stood, letting the water run down his body, thin as a whippet but still gracefully sculpted. His white cotton boxers clung to him, molded over his tapered thighs and a telltale bulge. There wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on Remy. His abdomen was an enviable six-pack. Broad shoulders and a smooth, chiseled chest tapered down to a narrow waist. A fine, downy layer of brown hair slicked over his forearms and calves. A sprinkling of it sprouted from copper-colored nipples that seemed to pucker beneath Logan’s gaze. He handed Logan the soap. “And ya missed a spot.” Remy’s touch burned as he took the slippery lump of soap from him and watched those boxers slide down into the water with a faint plop.

“Jesus…” Long, narrow feet stepped from the tub and landed on the soaking bath mat, but Logan was rooted to the spot. Remy flattened his hands over Logan’s chest, feeling it heave, meeting his eyes without fear. Naked desire licked over his features, but Remy felt the silent conflict raging through him.

“Wearin’ too many damned clothes, chere.” He closed the gap between them, fisting his hands in the soft flannel of Logan’s shirt, and he crushed his mouth beneath his. His kiss was hungry and lacking the gentleness that characterized the bath. Cool air kissed his skin as the steam dissipated in the tiny bathroom, but Remy didn’t care. Logan’s hands hesitated, but found him again, trembling as he let himself touch him again, without the intent to wash him. His palms flattened against him, cleaving to him possessively and roaming over every exquisite muscle, molding his flesh to him. Remy sighed into Logan’s mouth and his tongue slicked over his bottom lip before he suckled it. He swallowed Logan’s low growl as he arched and rubbed against him like a cat, greedily drinking in the textures of Logan’s clothing rasping against him and craving the solid, hard body underneath. He felt Logan’s muscles jump, then relax as he gave into the kiss, tangling his fingers in Remy’s silky hair and tugging on it to deepen the kiss. Their tongues stroked and danced, and Logan’s lips and teeth blazed a path over Remy’s fine chin and the graceful column of his throat, nipping his Adam’s apple.

Blood rushed into his vitals. He throbbed for Logan, and he was hard as a rock.

The first two buttons of Logan’s shirt were pried open before the tails of it were yanked from his waist band, and the garment was added to the heap in the corner with a careless flick. He kicked off his boots, no easy feat in the limited space of the bathroom, but Remy urged him back against the wall to better keep his balance and to continue the kiss. Thermal underwear and flannel-lined denims were stripped away, nearly tripping Logan in his zeal. Remy’s eyes greedily devoured the sight of Logan’s body, and his fingers combed through the fine, soft layer of black hair over his chest in wonder. The tactile experience would’ve been enough for anyone else; Logan’s previous partners loved the way he felt, and that gleam in his eye that was purely animal, and hungry.

For Remy, the pleasure was multiplied ten-fold as he drank in the feral’s emotions, drowning in the lust and desire that wrapped around him like a blanket. He needed to feel all of him. Every impression. Every touch.

The shock of Remy’s cool, damp skin against his own hot flesh as they engaged themselves in one another made Logan scowl briefly. “Yer cold. Get back in the tub.” Remy rubbed himself along Logan’s compact body again and ground his pelvis against the bulge in Logan’s boxers, making him groan. 

“Only if y’get in wit’ me,” Remy purred. Logan had already dropped the soap from nerveless fingers when Remy first kissed him. Remy back into the tub again, and he released Logan long enough to unplug the stopper and let out some of the water, murky with soap and grit.

Behind him, he heard the faint shift of fabric hitting the soaked bath mat. He turned on the tap again to warm up and freshen the bath water, and when he turned to beckon to Logan, he was gloriously naked, his erection stiff and engorged, glowing and rosy as it peeked out from its nest of dark curls. His balls were large, easily enough to fill Remy’s palm, and were drawn up tightly beneath his pulsing dick, creating a neat package that begged for Remy’s touch. The water continued pouring into the tub as Logan stepped in behind Remy, and he sank into the warmth, groaning as it eased the soreness in his muscles. He stretched out his legs, allowing Remy to stand between them as he reached up to tug his hand. Remy followed his silent injunction and turned off the tap, careful not to let it overflow with both of them occupying the tub, and he sat back, easing himself back against Logan’s chest.

Their sighs mingled as brawny arms wrapped around him and those strong, steady hands ran over his body, prying low cries and groans from his captive. Remy felt himself falling, but he wasn’t afraid. Some foolish voice reminded him that he was in the Wolverin’e competent hands.

Logan was right. He wasn’t Rogue. He could touch him to his heart’s content…and joyfully lose himself within him. He would drown this time. Logan’s emotions, his lust, were heady and addictive, and he craved more. Remy writhed back against him as Logan’s fingers grazed his nipple and teased it into a stiff little peak. His lips were demanding, and he lapped at Remy’s throat; he didn’t protest when Logan sank his canines into his flesh briefly, possession and naked want evident in the gesture and in the empathic grip he held him in. The tub was ridiculously narrow, but Remy had no complaints. He needed to get closer, consume more of that heady touch.

Logan palmed him, easing his hand down the length of his abdomen, sweeping over the rippling muscles until he found his target, nestled between Remy’s thighs. His choked cry rasped in his ear, hot breath bathing Remy’s lobe as he enclosed him in that strong grip and pumped him. Sensations rocked his senses with every snug stroke, and Logan smelled his arousal. He needed more. So much more.

“Rem,” he grated out, capturing the shell of Remy’s ear between his teeth, making him shiver. Remy’s hips bucked wantonly, his glutes pressing back into Logan’s throbbing flesh and raspy curls. His hand covered Logan’s and guided him to grip him harder, to move faster. He tingled and ached for release, but he wanted as much as Logan would give him.

To take what he could of him, before Logan went away. Left him cold…

He shook it off, and reluctantly pried himself from Logan’s embrace. Logan watched him pull himself away in a mixture of confusion and protest. Water sleeted off his sleek body as he stalked out of the room.

“Shit. Remy, wait!”

“Non. Need towels. Gon’ catch yer death. Gimme a sec.” His voice was muffled, and it cracked briefly before he made his way down the hall to the linen pantry. Logan sighed and cursed, rising from the tub to retrieve his discarded clothes. He was at a loss. The kid was throwing him for a loop.

In the wake of leaving the bathroom, swaddled in his flannel shirt and his boxers, still dripping, Logan weighed his options. He could leave. Mark this one up to experience the kind of dumb shit that happened on cold nights after a few drinks, even though his healing factor already burned off his shot of whiskey nearly an hour ago. Staying the night was asking for trouble, and Remy dealt in trouble. That much, Logan knew.

He caught the whiff of Remy’s pheromones. They hadn’t dissipated. If anything, they were stronger than before.

Remy had stepped into the bedroom, the largest one in the cabin. A full-sized bed was dressed in an old wedding ring down quilt, faded but relatively clean. The furnishings were as sparse in this room as they were in the front den, but the room held more character. A cherrywood vanity collected a layer of dust; a cracked mirror framed in the same wood revealed Remy draped in a long, blue terry cloth robe abandoned by the previous owner, and that was two sizes too big for his lean frame. He turned to take Logan the limp towels he’d retrieved, and was surprised to find him in the doorway, still dripping and partly dressed. His clothes were bunched in a ball and tucked into the crook of his arm. His boots dangled by their laces from his finger tips.

His black eyes sought answers to questions Remy wasn’t prepared to give him yet.

“Get dry,” Remy muttered. “Here.” He shoved a towel at him, which Logan gingerly took. The kid was on edge. Logan sighed with frustration and stood stiffly, staring him down.

“That’s it?”

“Sofa’s a pull-out. Fire oughta keep ya warm.”

“Bullshit. This room’s freezin’, Cajun. Ya can’t sleep back here!”

“Got de clothes on m’back. Remy’ll manage.”

“Stop actin’ like ya hafta do that alone.” Logan was at an end to his patience. He craved more of Remy’s voice in his ear, urging him to touch him. But he needed to set some things straight first.

Remy turned his back on Logan to briskly rub his hair dry with the nubby old towel. Logan’s fingers closed around his upper arm and jerked him backward before he could finish, and he was once again being dragged, stumbling, out toward the cheerful glow of the firelight in the den.

“Ya don’t have the common sense God gave a dog ta hide back here in the friggin’ cold when ya already have a spot ta stay warm,” Logan carped, not caring about the expletives Remy was muttering in his usual patois behind him. He tossed his clothing onto the battered coffee table and shoved his parka off the ottoman, now that it was mostly dry, and he nudged Remy backward onto it instead. He sat back with a faint “ooph!” as Logan tugged off the sofa cushions and prepared the bed. The springs creaked and groaned, diminishing Logan’s faith in its stability as Logan unfolded it, but he was grateful to see that the owner had already left it dressed with sheets and a vellux blanket. Remy was speechless as Logan moved with his usual calm efficiency, moving back and forth from one room to the other, retrieving the thick quilt and the remaining blanket and the two pillows, worn nearly flat from the suite. He plopped the items on top of the pull-out and began to arrange it into some semblance of a bed. The heat from the fireplace dried Remy’s hair and warmed his exposed legs, even as he pulled the robe more tightly around himself.

“Get in,” Logan barked.

“Already tol’ ya where Remy wuz gon’ sleep.”

“We moved on from that. You said the bedroom. I said bullshit. Case closed. Get in.” Logan hovered over him, imposing and not in the mood to argue. His beefy arms crossed over that magnificently broad, hairy chest, still peeking out from the open flaps of his flannel shirt. Remy sighed, but his eyes gleamed.

“Fine.” He stood from the ottoman and walked around Logan to the makeshift. “One t’ing,” Remy added.

“Yeah?”

“Remy sleeps in de buff.” He wrenched open the ties on his robe and let the heavy garment hit the floor. Unabashed, he stood before Logan and stared him down. Wry humor twisted his lips. He looked every inch the rake, and heat and want slammed into Logan’s gut. His jaw worked as Remy’s hand reached down to grasp his own erection in his fist and pump it slowly, decadently, until a pearly drop of precum glistened at its tip.

“Rem…”

“S’warm enough now,” he remarked, the look on his face pure temptation. “Wan’ Remy t’warm you up, chere?”

Unadulterated hunger leapt into Logan’s eyes, and he uttered a low growl in his throat. Remy didn’t back away, just kept up the easy rhythm of his hand, those devil’s eyes taunting him in invitation.

Logan wasn’t the least bit gentle when he knocked him back onto the sofa bed and covered his body with his. He wrested Remy’s hand from his swollen member and wrenched his wrists above his head in an unbreakable grip which his pelvis ground itself into his. His kisses were hard and insatiable, and Remy moaned in a mixture of pleasure and pain as Logan plundered his bruised mouth. He felt the cool, smooth cotton of Logan’s boxers brush against him with each press of his hips, the stiffness between them growing and colliding, pushing them over the brink.

One night. That was all Remy asked. Just one night for Logan to drag him out of his dark, lonely cage.

Remy didn’t know when Logan’s clothing fell away. Crisp, soft hair caressed smooth flesh. They moved together in sync as Logan’s teeth once again sank into Remy’s neck, but his hands no longer circled his wrists. His fingers laced through his as their emotions linked in a connection that was soul-deep and undeniable. Remy knew he’d be sore in the morning and didn’t give a damn. He offered himself up to Logan’s hunger as he pressed himself against him, grinding his pelvis into his, building luscious friction and heat between them. Logan was aroused and he craved the sounds escaping Remy’s lips.

He freed one of Remy’s hands, letting his fingers dance over the tendons of his arm, shoulder and chest, stroking the coppery nipple in feathery strokes before easing his way down toward his target. Remy gasped, sucking in desperate breaths when Logan’s hand ringed him in the same firm grip Remy used on himself, this time jerking him into a frenzy, and pressing his own stiff cock into the nest of his hand. The friction increased, and Remy’s eyes flew open, beseeching Logan for more as he writhed beneath him.

“Gawd,” he hissed. “Aw, Gawd, Logan!” Logan would never admit that he loved the sound of his name tumbling out from those chiseled lips, rosy from his kiss. Unlike Remy, he didn’t deal in easy charm. He reserved that sensual side of himself for anyone who had the courage to get close enough to look, and few claimed that privilege. He was strength and control personified. Pride was his constant. It sustained him when he had nothing else.

The Wolverine wasn’t supposed to need anyone. The cost was too great. The need to succor the stark, relentless misery that he smelled on Remy from the moment he walked into that filthy bar overrode his misgivings. He knew that the kid had to feel, fully, or wither and die. Pain. Pleasure. Hurt. Joy. Every emotion in the spectrum. It was how he was built. The Wolverine was undone by such things. When he hunted…when he killed, he couldn’t afford to feel. It was an empath’s nourishment; it was the bane of an assassin.

Guttural sounds tore themselves from his throat as he pushed harder, deeper, sheathing them both in his grip. Remy savored the crush of the hard body covering him, clinging to his strength, reveling in it. He was close; he tingled and throbbed, marshaling his energy for what he knew would be a satisfying release, and his free hand snaked around Logan’s nape, clutching tufts of that thick, soft hair, tugging him down for a kiss that was equal parts ravenous and needy. Logan moaned as he sank into it gratefully, accepting the affection even as his lust held sway.

Remy saw spots as he came with a jerk, bucking off the couch and crying out into the night. Sweat broke out over his skin as his creamy release exploded from the engorged head of his penis, leaving Logan’s abdomen slick and sticky, along with his. He throbbed and spasmed within Logan’s grip, groaning and rocking himself against him. Logan bowed his face into the nook where his neck met his shoulder as the aftershocks left him winded, making him cling to him. Logan was still hard, craving completion, but he basked in Remy’s warm breath steaming his temple, stirring the peaks of his hair.

Logan was surprised to find himself quivering and weak as a kitten. He didn’t object when Remy easily rolled him onto his back and eased them both up toward the head of the sofa bed to get more comfortable.

“Ya warm enough?”

“Ain’t been cold fer a while,” he shrugged, brushing a kiss over that stubborn mouth before he enveloped him. Remy’s arms snaked beneath him, and his nimble fingers kneaded the knotted muscle of his Logan’s shoulders and neck as he slanted his mouth over his, taking what he needed. He wanted to dominate that tongue almost as much as he wanted it lapping at his flesh, but Remy could afford to be patient, now that his initial thirst for him was slaked. Logan was relaxed and lay there in anticipation as Remy’s stubbled lips grazed over his throat and collarbones. His auburn head descended, and that glossy hair gleamed in the firelight, making Logan spasm and grunt with pleasure as Remy’s lips nibbled his nipple, still sensitive during his flush of unsated passion. No inch of him escaped the sweet onslaught of his mouth; Logan yelped aloud when his tongue teased his navel, dipping into it with no shortage of mischief.

“Quit it!” he groaned. It tickled too much.

“As y’wish, chere,” he murmured against him as he drew the plump head of his cock into his mouth. Logan hissed and bucked into the sweet embrace of his lips and velvety tongue. His hands never ceased caressing his flesh as Logan’s thighs quivered and spread themselves more widely to give him access, finally locking themselves around Remy ribcage and linking themselves at the ankles. Remy thrust against him and suckled him, bobbing his head in a rhythm that held him captive and sent fire into his belly. Logan took what he had to dole out; he was a generous lover, and he didn’t rush. Logan’s breathing took on Remy’s rhythm, dictated by the sweet movement of his mouth. His fingers plowed through that satiny hair, encouraging him wordlessly to continue. The low swallows as Remy lapped up the faint droplets of his essence leaking from him mingled with the crackling of the fire, and he lost himself in it. Remy’s fingers combed through the thatch of wiry curls at the apex of his thighs and cupped his sac, stroking it in lazy circles with his thumb. Logan nearly roared at the pulse of his head being swallowed up by the snug, wet walls of Remy’s throat. They coddled him, milking him of every…last…drop…

“AAAAAAAANNGGGH!” His body was drawn taut as a bowstring, and Remy plucked it nimbly, sending his climax rocketing through him, flowing through every muscle. His fingers twisted the blankets beneath him and fisted in Remy’s hair as he jerked, again and again with each wave of sensation. He came thickly, launching a jet of fluid down Remy’s throat before he could release himself from his mouth.

He shook, collapsing back against the blankets. He moaned and lolled limply as Remy rocked his face over his ebbing erection, lapping him clean with his tongue. He shifted himself and gently disengaged Logan’s thighs from his ribs, and he kneaded the tension from them so he could ease his way back down from his high.

“Rem…”

“Don’ speak,” he pleaded, and he made no move to join Logan at the head of the bed. He laid beside him and curled his body around Logan’s, palming his heartbeat. Its thudding gradually slowed to an even beat, soothing him as he basked in the glow of Logan’s pleasure. It was ironic to him, in that moment, that he’d craved conversation, the sound of another person’s voice for so many days, and he couldn’t come up with anything to say to his companion on what would have been a lonely night. Logan eyed the top of his head curiously and grunted, unwilling to argue. He settled for stroking his hair. He sensed the kid closing up again; he was skittish about something, but he didn’t want to pry.

Or in any event, send him running again.

He still needed to feel all of him. Remy was slightly startled when Logan dragged him up alongside him, draping him over himself before kissing him slowly, savoring the taste of Remy’s breath, still tinged with gin and bourbon, and bearing his own salty tang. They rocked together, enjoying the uncomplicated union of their bodies without urgency. Logan was tactile; touch stimulated him, his hunger for it singing through every vein, and Remy nourished him with it as he drank deeply from the feral’s contentment and languor. Logan cupped Remy’s ass, enjoying the firm, tight slope of the muscles beneath his palm. Remy followed the dictates of his grip, rocking his pelvis insistently against him, even if he just came. Logan wasn’t expecting Remy’s soft gaze or the teasing brush of his lips over the planes of his face. Long-fingers hands, the hands of a thief, framed his jaw as he kissed the bridge of that craggy nose, then the tip, finally landing on his waiting mouth.

He knew the Cajun had broken more hearts than he could count with that mouth. He wouldn’t add his to the growing pile. Not in this lifetime…he sighed as he let him have his way, probing the hot, slick interior with his tongue, winding it around his over and over.

His body chased Remy’s instinctively, unable to release the warm weight of him as he pulled away. Remy anticipated this, watching Logan rise to a sitting position and dangle his legs over the edge of the sofa bed.

He wasn’t going far. Confusion on Logan’s face was replaced with pleased surprise as Remy straddled his broad thighs. His manhood was already stirring back to life between his legs, and Remy coaxed it along with his sweet grip.

“When y’leave, chere, Remy promises ya, y’ain’t gon’ forget him. Ain’t gon’ forget dis.” With a pang, he watched Logan’s eyes cloud with the unwanted knowledge that he’d lost something precious, and his arms tightened around Remy to prevent his escape. His hands clutched him as Remy went about his task, still gripping Logan’s flesh in his fist and rubbing the luxuriously plump head against the tender, vulnerable crevice hidden from Logan’s view. He pumped him and rubbed, each time letting Logan’s flesh barely dip inside, priming himself for it. His own thumb guided the way, dilating himself for Logan’s entry; he couldn’t wait much longer.

“Rem…” He caressed the smooth planes of Remy’s long, lean back and moaned as Remy continued to pump him, readying both of them for the more thorough mating. Remy’s eyes were siren’s song of yearning and desire, all for him.

“Don’ speak. Might say sometin’ de both of us might regret,” Remy murmured, kissing him again. “Tonight ain’ ‘bout regrets. Not right now,” he promised. Logan knew it would be his undoing.

Thick fingers gently probed Remy’s snug entrance as he leaned up into his kiss. Remy’s cock bumped up against Logan’s belly, and he gripped it protectively, rubbing warmth and life into it as Remy continued his own ministrations, still priming them both.

Breath exploded from Logan’s lungs as Remy raised up on the balls of his feet and slowly descended upon him, letting Logan sink into him by degrees and testing the feel of him, hot and tight. Remy grunted in pleasure and pain, growing accustomed to the familiar sting and burn as he eased himself over Logan’s solid thickness. Logan’s grip tightened around him and sweat broke out over his flesh at his efforts to maintain control, but Remy’s snug sheath was making it damned near impossible. Logan cupped Remy’s sweet ass and squeezed as Remy began to rock against him, building a rhythm as he worked him more deeply inside. Remy’s muscles were still relaxed from the heat of the bath and Logan’s knowing touch, and he fit him like a glove. Remy milked cries and moans from his houseguest, watching his face change, suffused with passion and need.

“NNNNNNNGGGHHHH…” Logan followed Remy’s earlier injunction and didn’t attempt to talk. They coupled and enveloped each other wantonly; Logan’s hair felt irresistibly soft tangling in his hands as Logan growled against his throat. Blunt fingernails dug into his back, and Logan’s knotted muscles felt so good beneath his hands. He tipped Logan’s head back and drank once again from his mouth.

Faster and harder, he rode Logan as his grasp of his narrow hips tightened, lifting and lowering him according to his own body’s wants. He felt the burning cramp and spasm of his own muscles stiffening around Logan, felt the punishing throb and pulse of the flesh filling him so thoroughly and he knew that he was close. Brimming. Needy.

Once again, he fed off of the emotions that practically leaked from Logan’s pores. He nearly wept at the desperation he found there. The Wolverine wasn’t a desperate creature, he assured himself. He was strong and stalwart. An immovable wall of stone.

Who was silently weeping, his tears wetting Remy’s neck. Remy cried out as Logan roared and bucked, climaxing as Remy’s muscles clamped down around him. He rode it, coiling his arms around his lover, struck by pangs of uncertainty and more than a tinge of fear.

He couldn’t foster an attachment to the Wolverine. Not if he valued what shred of pride he had left.

He’d take away his nurturing warmth and leave him cold.

Logan’s cries and groans echoed off the shabby walls of the den and danced along Remy’s nerve endings. His pleasure was underscored by the inevitable, painful realization that he couldn’t save Remy this time, or play hero, bringing back their prodigal son. Remy sopped up his fulfillment and completion like a sponge, reveling in the strokes of Logan’s fingers around him, ringing him in fiery pleasure.

Moments later, Remy’s own shouts drowned out the crackles of the flames as they collapsed. Logan was the first to move; he padded over on unsteady legs to turn off the light. Remy lay limply on his side and listened to the sounds of Logan’s light steps, surprising for such a burly man. Bare feet padded over the drafty floor to the fireplace, and another log was thrown over the fire and prodded until sparks flew from the wood. The springs of the sofa bed sagged beneath Remy as his drowsy eyes drifted shut, and he felt the covers being dragged and tugged out from beneath him, all except for the cool sheet.

Three layers of flat sheet, blanket and the thick down quilt covered him, and Logan’s chest warmed his back. Remy trembled at the rush of Logan’s deep, gusting breath steaming his neck, ruffling his hair as he occupied the same pillow.

They didn’t share words.

Logan’s emotions, still unfettered, wrapped around Remy protectively and lulled him to sleep. Logan’s own nightmares were kept at bay by the boy’s charm and comforting scent. The arm flung over Remy’s chest was heavy and lax, and it made him feel safe. Logan’s thumb idly stroked him, right over his heartbeat.

No lullabies. No jokes. No promises.

Logan tasted cotton and metal when he woke the following morning. Faint streamers of sunlight leaked inside around the edges of the blanket he’d used as a makeshift curtain. The fire was weak but still crackling in the grate.

Remy was long gone. The sheets beside him were cold as a stone. Logan sat up and scrubbed his face with his palm, grinding the sleep from his eyes.

“Damn it, Cajun,” he rasped.

He didn’t know what to tell Rogue or ‘Ro. He didn’t even know what to tell himself.

Going home empty-handed wasn’t the worst of his offenses, as he shrugged into his discarded, rumpled clothes.

Knowing that Remy was stumbling back into dark, cold, silent hell he’d tried to help him escape, rather than coming home, was going to kill him by silent degrees.

Tag. Logan was it.


End file.
